


Rebels (Just For Kicks)

by BlueJay_Silvertongue



Category: Wonder Woman (2017), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Based loosely on the SexyBack music video, Because Elena Anaya DID THAT, Diana is a spy, F/F, Isabel is an assassin, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 23:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueJay_Silvertongue/pseuds/BlueJay_Silvertongue
Summary: The filthy WonderPoison spy AU that nobody asked for.





	Rebels (Just For Kicks)

**Author's Note:**

> My quarterly contribution of smut to this glorious fandom.

* * *

  _East Germany, April 1988_  

“Stop this at once.”

The voice barely skims the surface of Isabel’s consciousness. The concrete is cold against her cheek. Her wrists are burning. But she can breathe, and that’s all that matters. She can breathe. She can breathe.

Someone hisses something about a _questioning,_ and there’s a sharp cry as a body is flung out of the room. A stampede of sturdy boots chase each other out of the room, then the heavy metal door shuts with a clang.

And then there is silence.

Isabel stares up at the ceiling, the world slowly coming back into focus. Her rescuer is standing at her feet, but the brace around her neck doesn’t allow her to look the shadowy figure in the face.

“So it is you."

 

* * *

_Veld, Belgium, November 1986_

There is a wedding.

She stares at a woman from across the room. She’s here to work, but there’s no reason she can't enjoy the scenery.

Then a man asks her a question, and when she looks again, the woman is gone.

Some time later, there is an explosion.

Isabel takes a final glance back, then flees in a taxi. Too late, she thinks it is speeding too quickly down the wet expressway.

There is another explosion, and then the impact of flesh and bone meeting apsalt. In a distance, she sees the flaming twist of metal sliding further and further down the road, as if it is still driving away, without her. And then the world stops, and she hears nothing but the high, strained sound of her labored breath, and the rain pouring down onto the world that once was hers.

The rain turned the road into a river.

She should have washed away.

But another car squeals to a halt beside her crumpled figure, and strong hands grab her back before she can float away.

 

* * *

_Barcelona, Spain, February 1987_

The next time they meet, they are in one of Barcelona’s most popular nightclubs. It’s a loud, trembling room full of noise and lights and distractions: shadows, heat, bodies. But it’s easy to feign cluelessness in a room like this, and that’s why they’re here.

And here they are, both of them tracking the same target, some man who has made too many powerful people uncomfortable. Isabel watches him surreptitiously over the suited shoulders of drunk, charming men, and waits for the right moment.

And then she sees her.

She’s there, dancing, sinuous and strong, like the snake she is. She’s there, throwing back her head, downing shot after shot. She’s there, laughing too loudly, grinning too widely, reaching out to grasp at her charmed victims with elegant hands. They fall over themselves to get to her, and they tell her things: Secrets. Scandals. Skeletons.

Isabel stares, trying to think, to keep her mind clear. But she barely remembers that night–the explosion, the fire, the accident. She woke the next morning in a musty hotel room, her skin mottled with bruises and dried blood. But she remembered her face.

You don’t forget a face like that.

Isabel watches, follows them both. She’s had two targets before. Hell, sometimes she has six or seven.

The woman doesn’t acknowledge her, but once, her slender hand reaches into her purse and pulls out a compact. Isabel raises the frothy bottle of beer in her hand. The eye in the tiny mirror winks in response. A red stick of red lipstick slips over those soft lips, and then the mirror is gone, and the woman disappears.

Isabel downs her drink, slides off of the barstool, and makes her way upstairs. She would stay and play this game, this game of cat and mouse, wooer and wooed, captor and captive–but the time is not quite right.

The gun goes off, the sound muffled by the fat suppressor shoved against the gun’s muzzle. A dog barks. Isabel curses and sprints for the window. The taxi’s wheels crunch over snow, and she doesn’t stop to think until she’s standing, dripping, in the main offices, four hours away. She files the report for the finished mission, and strolls out on foot, no longer threatened, no longer a threat.

The streetlights are beginning to dim in the light of the rising sun, and the woman is a forgotten face in the muddle of a tense, electric, _successful_ night. The government has paid her off handsomely for her trouble, and she trudges through the golden sunlight to her apartment.

The random pastry she’d picked up on her walk home drops onto the dusty floorboards, and she throws herself onto the couch. The door shuts, and the deadbolt clicks forward. She’s asleep in seconds.

 

* * *

_London, England, September 1987_

Seven assassinations later. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t looked for her before each one. But two seasons pass before they finally meet again in the bar of London’s most expensive luxury hotel. The woman is traveling with an entourage, clearly meant to give the illusion of a business trip. They blend in with the rest of the wealthy travelers and tourists, her and her group of suits and powersuits. It’s a risky move, sending in a crowd like that, but Isabel watches as she empties her cocktail, and by the end of the night, even she has to admit that they all play their parts perfectly. The men are boisterous and over-confident and protective, and the women are all reserved smiles and professional charm as they sip from barely filled glasses of wine. No one bats an eye.

She’s too beautiful to be with them, though.

She’s wearing an expensive, formal jacket that occasionally parts to reveal the elegant dress underneath. She moves gracefully, effortlessly, but Isabel knows there are at least two knives and a firearm lying invisible underneath that slinky gown. Isabel smirks. Clearly, they meant to portray her as some sort of heiress or co-business owner. A simple solution to the fact that England’s best spy is at least a decade younger than every other professional snoop on the roster.

Isabel Maru’s cover is much less complicated. She’s in London, accompanying her currently absent husband on a business trip. If anyone had been watching, they might have spotted the nondescript couple in the hotel’s restaurant, eating a quiet dinner on the night they arrived. But tonight, he’s in a meeting room across town, furiously taking notes that will send Spain’s wealthiest automobile manufacturer spiraling down into bankruptcy. And Isabel is here, sitting at the counter of this bar, sipping her drink, feigning indifference, and zeroing in on her own mission.

“G and T.”

Clive Christian, 1872. It’s smooth, mossy, masculine, fresh. It curls pleasantly up into Isabel’s nose, and she raises her head like the arrogant trophy wife she’s supposed to be. It’s an interesting choice of perfume for a woman pretending to be a lady.

Her fellow spy glances at her and smiles an easy, friendly smile of a girl who has nothing to fear in the world.

“I was beginning to worry about you.”

It’s the first time Isabel’s ever heard her voice.

Smooth, sweet, _succulent_ seduction.

She could get used to a voice like that.

“Were you?”

The woman leans forward, and Isabel resists the urge to shiver.

“That man. He has been watching you since he arrived with his _posse.”_

Isabel doesn’t need to look to know which suit the woman is referring to, but she shrugs, slightly disappointed.

“He’s just bored. Nothing to fear, love.”

“Are you sure? I’d be happy to take care of him if he’s making you uncomfortable.”

The woman’s drink has arrived. The cubes of ice and the lime wedge float innocently against the lip of the glass.

“Sometimes discomfort is not… a _bad_ thing.”

 

* * *

  
The gun in her waistband clatters to the floor. The woman’s kisses are hot, hard, and _relentless._ Isabel pushes her away, panting, shoving her against the wallpapered wall. The woman’s hands are pressing against her shoulder blades, skin on skin, keeping her close, locked in. She ducks her head, those red lips sucking hard right there, _right there_ above her collarbone, and she gasps.

“Took you long enough,” Isabel manages to hiss as the woman steps away. She pulls, and the dress whispers down her skin like water. Isabel barely has time to stare before the woman presses her back into the mess of silk sheets and velvet bedspreads and straddles her.

“Is that all you have to say?” the woman says almost pompously, pushing the waves of hair away from her shoulders as she bends down to look Isabel in the face.

“What do you want me to say?” Isabel asks, leaning forward to kiss those lips. Her mouth is warm, sweet, inviting. Isabel tries to meet her tongue with her own, but the woman pulls away before she can, and Isabel falls back onto the pillows, pouting.

 _“Thank you for saving my life back in Belgium, mysterious stranger,”_ the woman breathes, deft fingers unhooking the clasp against Isabel’s back. _“Thank you for stunning that dog in Barcelona before it could eat me.”_ The unshapely scrap of silk falls to the floor beside the bed, and firm hands cup her breasts, carefully, experimentally. But the woman's eyes are gleaming, and Isabel bites back a moan as two rough thumbs begin to circle her nipples. _“Thank you for gunning down those cars that were chasing me in Glasgow.”_ A foot creeps up the side of Isabel’s leg, and she laughs helplessly as a cold toe hooks around the edge of her underwear and drags it down her kicking legs. _“Thank you for drugging that man in Tangier so then he couldn’t shoot me.”_

With each country, the woman’s language changes. Dutch, Spanish, Scottish English, Arabic. Her accents are perfect, flawless, and her _hands..._

“What the fuck were you even doing in Tangier?” Isabel asks, reaching down to grip at the sheets, or the mysterious woman’s hair, or the bedspreads, or the pillows, or _anything_ as the woman’s warm palms slip down to her ribs and over her stomach.

 _“None of your business,”_ she replies, blithely answering Isabel’s rough English with soft, silky Spanish. Isabel’s hips rise indignantly and strong hands press them back down.

“Be patient, little one. We’ve waited a long time for this.”

“Whose fault is _that?”_ Isabel growls as the woman presses feathery-light kisses in a line from hip to hip, dipping lower with each breath.

The woman pauses and raises her head, and Isabel bites her lip, resolving to never speak again, at least not until this is over, until it’s all over, and this tension has fallen away to blind, breathless satisfaction.

“It’s no one’s fault.”

“Fine. It’s no one’s fault.” _Now please, please get on with it. Please, please, please…_

“You’ve been following me.”

Warm lips brush lightly against her clit, and Isabel whimpers.

“I… it sounds more like _you’ve_ been following _me.”_

The wandering mouth presses deeper, then pulls away. Isabel groans and raises her head in time to see the woman grinning up at her, that red tongue flicking out to lick her lips clean.

_Jesus Christ._

“So.” A cold knuckle brushes down her opening, and Isabel pushes forward, trying to urge that hand a little higher. “How long have you been doing this… this work?”

Isabel gasps as a single finger presses into her and she reaches above her head to seize at the nearest pillows.

“You want to have this conversation _now?!”_

“Oh, yes. We may not have time later.” Another finger joins the first, and Isabel shivers.

 _“It’s none of your business,”_ she manages to snap, struggling both against the slow, teasing pace of the woman’s fingers inside of her, and against the ancient Greek syllables on her tongue. The woman laughs. Her laugh is almost as maddening as her touch.

“What a strange little creature you are,” she murmurs, slowly pulling out her fingers and tracing circles over her clit with her own wetness. Isabel’s back arches, her breath held back as tension jerks through her body. She can hear herself moaning, and she’s too lightheaded, too worked up, too  _ready_ to care.

The fingers pull away once more. Isabel kicks out, shoves a fist into the soft mattress, reaches out with clawed fingers to finish the job herself. But a quick hand catches her wrists, and presses them back into the pillows above her head. That face is looming directly over her now, and a warm thigh presses between her legs.

“Give me your name, little one."

Isabel digs her heels into the bunched-up bedspread, strains against the hand pinning down her arms, tries to lean forward to bite that infuriating smile away from those shiny lips.

_“Why?”_

“Why not?” The woman leans in and kisses her. She can taste herself as that strong tongue presses forward against her own. And then she’s pulled away once more, and the hip between her legs begins to rock, pressing her deeper into the bed, pressing, but not _enough,_ against her.

“Well?”

Her skin is burning, covered in sweat. The woman’s fingertips feel like fire as they brush down her collarbone, over her breast, coming to a rest at her bucking hips. Isabel catches her breath and stares up at her. The woman's gaze is wicked, amused, but tender. Knowing. Waiting.

_Isabel. My name is Isabel. My name is Isabel._

Her body is shaking.

The woman’s hand slips down between her legs.

Waiting.

She leans down and presses a light kiss against her jawline. Soft hair tickles Isabel’s face. Clive Christian's 1872, mixed with the smell of the sweat drenching her skin and the bed beneath them, and the salty taste of her waiting, throbbing core.

_“Well?”_

She moans. The lips move down to her throat.

“Isabel.” Her voice is barely a gasp. But the body atop hers hears, and the stilled fingers press in abruptly.

“Good girl.” And then the mouth at her neck bites. And those fingers hook against her, pressing, pulling, and a thumb circles her clit, again and again and again, building, building, building–

_“Isabel… Isabel, Isabel...”_

Smooth, sweet, succulent...

That _voice_ chants her name like a prayer or a curse, like she’s one of the Old Gods, and only by whispering her name will all life on earth be blessed. And she almost wishes she was, because at this moment, in this very moment in time, she would give anything, anything at all…

 

* * *

  _East Germany, April 1988_

_“So it is you.”_

Isabel feels herself relax. Against all odds, all her training, all her instincts, she feels herself relax.

The restraints against her wrists and her neck and her ankles fall away, and then she is there, in all her glorious beauty, gathering her up in her strong arms, carrying her away.

“Am I dead?”

The woman chuckles, but she’s running, doors are slamming, alarms are ringing, gunshots are echoing... Isabel rests her swollen cheek against smooth leather and closes her eyes.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this nonsense!
> 
> About the ending, I think Isabel is either dying and hallucinating her rescue, or Diana really did appear, and is currently fighting tooth and nail to get her out. So it's up to you what you want to think! :)


End file.
